balcony

 

"This cold is going to kill me," I said to myself, reaching for the cardboard box for the hundredth time. The enormous stack of used tissues practically obscured the TV. "And on top of that, this terrible headache." I sipped some more warm rose tea and wrapped myself more tightly in the woolen blanket. "Ugh, I have to take antibiotics in two hours," I mused. "I can't fall asleep now, or I won't get up in time." So I mindlessly flipped through the TV channels and pondered my miserable fate. "Well, the girls are probably having a good time right now," I thought ruefully. "We'd planned this girls' party two weeks ago, and I'd be there now if it weren't for my detective instincts (or simply my nosy nature) and incredible endurance (or rather, stupidity combined with an overwhelming desire to impress my friends by telling them a sensational story). Both of these traits had led me to the state I was in now. And it started so innocently......

"Listen, I'm sorry, but I can't come over today." The voice on the phone belonged to my friend Ewa, informing me that I unexpectedly had the evening off. "My sister and her whole family are all over me. They'll definitely be staying up late, we haven't seen each other in ages. Will you manage?" she asked with concern in her voice. "Hmm... well, I'll have to," I acknowledged her concerns. "I'll wear a headscarf for a month at most," I concluded with a laugh, as we were planning to dye my hair today. After all, there was a party on Saturday, so I wanted to look stunning. "Well, bye, I'll be over tomorrow at noon, and we'll go shopping together," Ewa added. "Okay, bye!" I smiled involuntarily at the thought of tomorrow and hung up the phone. I glanced at my watch. It was almost 6 p.m. "Well, I have to get this dyeing done," I sighed. "It can't be that hard." I quickly changed into a sleeveless T-shirt that—as the faded inscription attested—still dated back to the summer of '95. I knew from experience that dyeing was never without its casualties. Sometimes the dye would splash onto my blouse, sometimes onto my towel, leaving a permanent stain. I reached for the dye container, which bore a portrait of a smiling girl with beautiful auburn curls. "Yes, the color looks really interesting, I wonder how it will look on my hair." A flicker of anxiety flitted through my mind, but I quickly pushed it aside. "Dark auburn," I read the inscription on the dye tube. Then I reached for the porcelain bowl and tore open the sachet of clear liquid in one swift motion. "Now you have to squeeze the contents of the tube and mix it thoroughly," I muttered to myself, trying to reassure myself, while simultaneously stirring the dye with a plastic spatula. When it was a uniform color, I headed for the bathroom. "Heaven's will be done," I said to my reflection in the mirror and began applying the brown substance to my hair. Since it was currently very short, it went remarkably smoothly. I rubbed the dye all over my hair and spread it thoroughly.

"Dyeing time: 30-40 minutes," I read on the instructions, "then rinse thoroughly." "Pah... easy." I shrugged. "I'll make myself a cup of tea and read a women's magazine." With a blissful smile on my face, I headed to the kitchen, brewed myself a cup of raspberry tea, and waddled back to my room. It was late October, so it was already getting dark. However, since the evenings were still warm, I grabbed a cup of tea and went to the window and opened the balcony door.

"...I won't forgive you for this, I've had enough of your constant sulking!" A snippet of conversation that seeped into my room made me stop dead in my tracks. For a second, I thought they were talking to me, but that's impossible on the fifth floor! The only solution I could think of—and the most accurate one—was to attribute the text to my new neighbors, who had moved in above me the previous week. They were probably renting an apartment, just like their predecessors, but I hadn't had the chance to meet them yet. I don't even know what they might look like, but what's the point of imagination! He was probably some businessman who spent all day away from home, and she was a helpless blonde whose life was based on systematically watching another episode of a soap opera—I had a psychological profile ready—and now I found myself in a quarrel between a young married couple. I wonder what I can learn about them... I silently pulled aside the curtain and moved closer to the doorframe.

"You're hopeless, you know, you never manage to get anything done!" "The raised voice, undoubtedly belonging to the blonde, expressed anger mixed with resentment. "You're a complete asshole, that's all! I'm tired of constantly babysitting a loser like you." "Yes?" "This time the man was allowed to speak," "a loser? But somehow that doesn't stop you from spending my hard-earned money! But stop it, starting tomorrow, you have to look for a job, or you won't get a penny from me." The man was clearly irritated. "I'm tired of running this house! You're never satisfied, you're always short, and you somehow manage to get enough for a coffee at the pub, right?" "Stop it!" the woman screamed. "How dare you bring up such things! You disappear for days on end, and what do I get out of life? What? I clean, I wash, I cook, I shop so my lordship has everything on time. And what do I get out of it? I can't even have coffee with my friends?" the blonde clearly wasn't giving up. "You're truly disgusting with your stinginess!" "If your mother..."

The voices suddenly began to fade; the action had clearly moved deeper into the apartment. I couldn't suddenly lose track, so I opened the door wider and slipped onto the balcony. Cool air brushed against my back—brr...I gripped the mug of warm tea tighter and listened intently...

.....then you'd see what it's like—I'd regained communication—to toil all day just to listen to all this nonsense." The man was becoming increasingly agitated.

His voice was now fainter, now intensifying, indicating the guest was moving quickly around the room. I moved closer to the balcony railing and listened intently.

"Your idiotic behavior is driving me crazy! Can't you solve problems any other way???" The man was clearly growing irritated. "Stop crying, you're not a little kid, finally understand that I've had enough. You sit at home all day and what? You wander around the kitchen, dust, and you're already thinking about going out for coffee with your friends. And you even dare complain??? The truth is, you don't appreciate anything. But you'll see, this idyll is over. Starting tomorrow, get out and look for a job!" he finished firmly, and I heard the door slam. "Hmm... did he leave?" I wondered, disappointed by this ending. I listened intently for a moment, as it seemed to me that someone was only speaking in a very hushed tone. "No, it can't be them," I mused. "That couple is speaking too calmly. It's probably the neighbors below me, talking about the day, and the walls are so thin." I was about to head back to my apartment, as apparently nothing more interesting awaited me, and on top of that, it had gotten really cold, when suddenly...

"Let me go, stop fooling around!" A woman's desperate voice effectively held me in place.

"Are you crazy! Take your hands off!" The woman was clearly struggling with someone.

"No, I'm not crazy," the cold male voice made my blood run cold, "but I can easily make you look crazy. Everyone knows you go crazy from time to time. You see a therapist, right? So you can see that my version of events is entirely plausible. Depression, medication, suicide attempts, one of which was successful... when your corpse splinters against the concrete, I'll first succumb to black despair, then empty our bank account and disappear somewhere beyond the seven mountain ranges..."

I stood frozen, unsure whether to scream or run. "Get off this balcony as fast as you can," my self-preservation instinct screamed, "the guy'll take her out first and then come for you!" I swallowed nervously and leaned against the doorframe, but the vision of the woman falling before my eyes effectively held me in place. "God, what should I do?" I frantically searched for a sensible solution, but each one seemed as pointless as it was dangerous. I strained my ears, but the voices upstairs had faded.

"He must have gagged her, and she's numb with terror, powerless to defend herself," I thought, feeling beads of sweat trickle down my temple. "I have to do something, now." I silently approached the balcony railing and leaned out, cautiously looking up. I expected to see the bound, dangling woman, and the murderer's face just above her, but to my surprise, there was nothing. I leaned even further and...

"Let's try again, okay?" The male voice above me startled me so much I almost screamed. My heart was pounding. "What do you mean, let's try again?" My frantic brain couldn't process one simple sentence logically. What I heard a moment later made me lose my mind, my synapses burned out, my hands gripped the railing tightly, and my jaw dropped in that characteristic way.

"No, I'm not crazy, but I can easily make you look crazy. Everyone knows you go crazy from time to time. You see a therapist, right? So you can see that my version of events is entirely plausible." Depression, medication, suicide attempts, including one successful one... when your corpse splinters against the concrete, I'll first fall into black despair, then empty our bank account and disappear somewhere beyond the seven hills....

"I'm having deja vu...or I've gone crazy...or this guy is a lunatic." I considered various solutions, but I knew I had to do something, otherwise he'd eventually carry out his plans, and I'd never forgive myself for my inaction. I have to save this woman, come what may! I gathered my courage, and though my throat was dry as paper, I screamed in the most menacing voice I could muster:

"What's going on there??? Please stop this immediately or I'll call the police! Run," I managed to add, breathing heavily from the excitement and exertion, as I nearly fell off the balcony myself, so much so that I leaned out to see what was happening. The two faces that appeared on the balcony above me at that moment expressed utter astonishment. I recoiled in horror. "Damn, he's noticed me now, he'll remember me, and he'll finish me off one fine day," I thought, imagining my sad end. Then, at lightning speed, I ran from the balcony and closed the door. What should I do??? Where should I hide??? I have to move or go somewhere. I raced around the room, searching for a solution and an escape from my future murderer. "I'll call Ewa, she'll think of something," I rushed to the telephone in the hallway, when a light knock on the front door stopped me in my tracks. "He's come for me... this is the end," I thought. I swallowed hard as someone knocked lightly again – a murderer always knocks twice – I thought ironically, weighing my chances – I'd probably offended the Russian mafia. I'd open the door and he'd put a bullet in my head, and if I didn't open it, he'd do it himself, and tomorrow they'd find my body in a laundry basket (I'd seen such a scene in a movie. I wonder why it came to mind now???). Oh well, I thought, turning the door lock – I'm not going to sneak around corners; I have to face my fate. Trying to gain confidence and wipe the look of terror from my face, I swung the door open. Standing before me was a slim blond man in a checkered shirt, staring at me with wide eyes and moving his lips as if he wanted to say something. His appearance completely contradicted my image of a classic thug. "He changed his clothes to throw me off guard," I thought with resignation. "He'll pull out a Beretta with a silencer and...

" "Excuse me, are you okay?" he finally stammered, extending his hand towards me. I instinctively pulled away. "Nothing, why are you asking?" I looked at him suspiciously. "Maybe he's a lunatic," the thought flashed through my mind. "You have dried blood on your cheek. Are you sure you're okay?" he asked with concern in his voice.

"Blood!" I almost screamed. "What blood?" "Look in the mirror... it's dripping from your temple," he added, touching the right side of his head. Instinctively, I raised my hand, imitating his movement, and touched my wet cheek. I ran my hand down and looked at my fingers, which were covered in a sticky, brown goo.

"Wow," I stammered, "it's not blood, it's... hair dye." I lunged for the mirror and stared at my reflection, speechless. My hair, covered in a dark substance, stood on end, and dark, partially dried streaks of dye ran down my forehead, cheek, and neck, giving my face a slightly demonic look. "Marlyn Manson's hiding," I thought, desperately trying to find some excuse for my appearance. I was about to go to the bathroom to wash off this poor makeup when I remembered the supposed gangster's presence. I turned around and realized with horror that he had followed me into the hallway. He stood there, looking around

uncertainly. "I'm sorry," he began, seeing my fear. "I didn't mean to scare you, I mean, we didn't mean to. Because, you know, we live upstairs, meaning we rent this apartment... we're drama students, and my friends and I are preparing our debut performance." And I think we rehearsed our parts a little too loudly, or maybe we got a little carried away. We wanted it to look natural... We didn't want to scare you, it turned out so stupid... Are you feeling okay?" he asked with concern in his voice, seeing my jaw drop to the floor and all the blood that had drained from my face returning like a tsunami. "Yeah... I'm fine, I'm fine now," I stammered, realizing (not for the first time, by the way) my own stupidity. "You were really very convincing, simply brilliant! You convinced me, you really will be excellent actors, and you'll pass the exam with a hundred percent," I added, trying to gain confidence. "If anything, I can testify to your professor and tell you what happened, standing on the balcony and..." At that moment, I burst into hysterical laughter, realizing the ridiculous situation I was in. The student also smiled faintly, looking at me in a way that clearly indicated he doubted my mental stability. "I'll go now, sorry again," he added, disappearing behind the front door. "

No, this isn't real," I said to myself, wiping away the tears that had fallen from my laughter with the back of my hand. "This is some kind of nightmare." I trudged toward the bathroom—normally, no one would believe me. I looked in the mirror with resignation. There was no trace of my golden chestnut hair; my hair was as black as the earth, and my skin was a dusky brown. "Now how am I going to wash these streaks off my face!?" I asked myself, staring blankly at my reflection.

I spent a good half hour scrubbing my face with a pumice stone (exfoliation is a good thing, after all), a brush, bleach, rubbing alcohol, and anything else I could find. The stains faded somewhat, but they remained, reminding me of my adventure for a few more days. Eventually, as a result of exposing my wet head to the cold, I developed a cold that put me in bed for good, depriving envious people of the opportunity to comment on my appearance and me of a good time with the ladies. But hey, being a would-be crime hero requires sacrifice, and the path to Sherlock Holmes fame comes at a high price :)